


i just wanna say (you're mine)

by thimble



Series: something stupid [3]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, bottom!Aomine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: "What's the deal," says Aomine, when the chain catches light from outside the window. "Did you promise to marry Kagami or something.""Or something," says Himuro. "What's your deal? You've never asked before.""I'm asking now.""Only if you actually want to know the answer.""Yeah, I do."[Aomine develops a fixation. It's not something he can explain.]





	

The first time is accidental, caught between the panic of losing Himuro in a crowded train and the desperation to keep him close. It's easier to keep track of each other when it's moving — Aomine's arms resting on Himuro's shoulders as he held onto the grab handles and Himuro onto him, the occasional press of their chests as the motion made them sway, and Himuro's unsubtle whispers because he had a returnee's manners and he never did learn to shut up on public transport. Aomine listens to him only half the time, and more to the steady, familiar lull of his voice than to his words, but when it goes missing he can't help but miss it, look for it, and wonder why it's gone.

In this case it's because the doors have opened to another stop, shuffling the positions of the passengers, and somehow Himuro was pushed to the side, out of Aomine's grasp several heads away. Aomine blinks, and instinctively he reaches out, as if he could defy the laws of physics with the simple manipulation of his fingers. His fingers, clutching around the first part of Himuro's he could touch, which turns out to be the chain resting at his nape.

Himuro glances at him upon contact, though he seems unsurprised to see Aomine looking for him. Unsurprised, and even amused. Aomine withdraws his hand in embarrassment, though not quick enough to escape Himuro kissing his fingertips as they go.

"Meet you outside the station," he mouths, as Aomine's ears catch a lick of flame. 

 

* * *

  
  
The second time is prompted by curiosity, the kind of chattiness that overtakes him when getting off has loosened his tongue, dulled his senses to everything but Himuro beside him. Himuro's an interesting guy, so it's only natural, and while the enigma of him is obvious when they're around other people, it's magnified when they're alone and there's nothing else to occupy Aomine but the smoothness of his skin under Aomine's textured palms, the tremble of typically composed shoulders when Aomine chances upon a spot he hasn't before, or the taste of him inside Aomine's mouth — infuriatingly minty, as per usual.

The aftermath includes rarities in which Aomine talks more than Himuro does, fishing for compliments or replaying the night in his mind for something to pick out, to make the moment last longer. You got louder, he'd say, his grin equal parts proud and lecherous, or, didn't know you were ticklish, while watching for a reaction. It's not just a matter of rating his performance — it's also quite opportunistic, since post-sex Himuro happens to be a Himuro too content to be guarded.

"What's the deal," says Aomine, when the chain catches light from outside the window, reflecting it in the near-darkness. It paints an attractive picture, the glint of silver on Himuro's collarbone, so tempting Aomine can't even hope to refrain from touching it. So he does, and it isn't cold under his fingertips like he expected it to be, warmed by Himuro's body heat. "Did you promise to marry Kagami or something."

"Or something," says Himuro, letting his fingers wander as they pleased. "What's _your_ deal? You've never asked before."

"I'm asking now."

"Only if you actually want to know the answer."

Aomine shrugs, toying with it some more before his palms shifts along Himuro's jaw. He leans in, nosing along its sharp edge, "Yeah, I do."

"Okay," says Himuro, voice soft as he starts from the beginning, hitching, sometimes, when Aomine sucks particularly hard at his pulse. 

 

* * *

  
  
The third time is because Himuro's a characteristically evasive guy, and no matter how much Aomine wants him to be still, to stay put, to stop making Aomine chase after him so often, he never does. Himuro's never cruel enough to ever be out of reach, but he subconsciously puts enough distance between them to get on Aomine's nerves.  
Literally and figuratively.

It's not so bad when they're back home, when Aomine's surrounded by familiar things to occupy himself with rather than being stuck with a depressingly popular tour guide who seems to spend more time greeting friends than actually showing him around. Himuro's 'friends' range from old ladies in Chinatown talking about how big Tatsu-chan's grown, now, and who's that tall glass of water behind him? To high school kids who say Tatsuya used to teach them how to shoot, does he maybe wanna check their forms after class?

And, well, that shit's okay, and Aomine isn't objecting to getting fussed over by kids or grandmas, but it's Himuro's other friends that have him gritting his teeth in frustration. He hasn't forgotten going up against those American assholes when they were in second year, and though they ended up winning in the end, that had been his only experience with american basketball players so far.

It wasn't a flattering impression.

It doesn't help that he's sure he can smoke these guys, no sweat, so why is Himuro giving them so much of his time? If he wanted someone to talk basket with, Aomine's free, so can he just—

"Hey," Aomine says, his grip automatically on the chain — why his fingers went there, he can't fathom why — to give it a tug, just a small one, just to say, a glaring reminder in the language only they can understand, "I'm right here."

"Yes, you are," says Himuro, seeming baffled for once. He swallows against the tautness of the chain on his throat, Adam's apple bobbing underneath it, and Aomine lets go.

"These guys play, yeah? So let's play." He tilts his chin at the guys in silent challenge, and he pretends he can't feel the weight of Himuro's gaze behind him as they head to a court.

* * *

  
  
The fourth time inches closer to purpose and less towards coincidence, caused by other people's predisposition to flocking around Himuro like he's giving away free drinks. And, well, he is sort of giving away the opportunity to drink him in, draped over the side of the bar like that, jeans clinging to mile-long legs and a shirt that's somehow ridden up in the five or so minutes Aomine had spent in the restroom. But Aomine's never had a problem with Himuro attracting the occasional — the frequent — stare, even takes some kind of boyish pleasure in Himuro flourishing under the attention, all bright eyes and animated hands, and in the knowledge that Aomine's the one who gets to take him home.

Yeah, looking is fine. It's when it moves past that that Aomine bristles, hot and agitated under the collar, especially when it's by someone who looks like he's had one shot too many, his hand stroking Himuro's arm.

Himuro, who handles his liquor better than Aomine does, still falls prey to an excess of alcohol, his smile amicable, as if daring the guy to test his luck, see where else he could touch. Anyone who doesn't know him would think it friendly, maybe an invitation find a private corner, but Aomine's been on the receiving end of that smile, and it's a smile that promises consequences.

Call it his spider sense. He cuts through the crowd just as Himuro raises his fist, and he gets the idea to yank at the chain rather than Himuro's shirt, to reason with metal rather than fabric — and it works, stops Himuro right in his tracks before he has the bouncers running.

Himuro, after a dangerous pause, lowers his hand. Unfortunately, the guy's still too drunk to catch on to the fact that his nose almost got broken and won't withdraw, so Aomine opts for a more classic approach.

Pulls at the chain, the gesture not harsh as it is insistent, until Himuro's sidled up against him, then shifts his fingers to Himuro's neck to tilt it back and to the side, at an angle where kissing is possible.

The tension melts out from Himuro as he melts into the kiss, but Aomine keeps his eyes open as a warning sign. His message is simple, deliberate in the obscenity of his tongue in Himuro's mouth: fuck off.

It does the trick. Himuro straightens up when the hand on his arm retreats, glancing at Aomine appraisingly. "My hero."

Aomine snorts. "You were gonna get us thrown out." or I was, he doesn't mention, if he kept touching you like that.

"Hey," says Himuro, brow arched, "Did you just turn down a free bar fight?"

"Yeah, well," says Aomine. "I like it here." He's quick to avoid the jab to his ribs when he adds, smirking, "the DJ has great boobs."

 

* * *

  
  
The fifth time is a return to impulses, to bodies moving of their own accord — fitting, as their current situation has him with his legs apart, with two of Himuro's fingers inside him. Himuro's pace is steady and familiar, and he adds a third just as Aomine adjusts to the width.

Aomine bites at the sheets, heat spreading across his skin like a candle tipped over. The stretch burns the way his legs do after a good workout, and it takes a toll on his lungs just the same. There's a persistent sensation of what he has and what he's missing.

"Good for you?" says Himuro, thick with an undercurrent of laughter, and of something else too indecent to describe. At times like this Himuro's face becomes a cinema screen, the gambling expression abandoned to display amusement, arousal, restraint. To Aomine he looks like a different person, or like the person he really is, and the thought is sometimes enough to get Aomine shifting his pants in public.

Himuro twists his fingers and Aomine clenches around them with a staggering breath. Why he had to develop these sorts of feelings for a goddamn tease, he doesn't know.

"No. Hurry up."

"They say patience is a virtue."

"Fuck patience. No, shit." his grunt is barely contained when Himuro thrusts farther in, fingers slightly crooked at the knuckle it seems like, "fuck _me_."

This time, Himuro doesn't laugh. He'd claim, later on, that the gravel of Aomine's voice doesn't affect him, but he looks flushed from the neck up after hearing that and Aomine would smirk if his plea hadn't been genuine.

Himuro's fingers slip out, followed soon after by Himuro himself, slicked liberally as he pushes forward. Aomine's breathing goes shallow, but he doesn't shut his eyes at the sight above him: Himuro biting his bottom lip, a dusting of pink on his cheeks as he presses in all slow and measured, waiting until Aomine opens up around him. They don't always finish unscathed, both of them sporting bruises and scratches in the morning, but it always starts out this way — careful.

"Good for you?" asks Himuro again, once he's pressed all the way inside. He's panting lightly, lips parted without a trace of his usual smile. And it _is_ good, to have his armor down like this, though Aomine can't help but think there's still too much distance even when they're impossibly close, which is right when he notices the chain dangling from Himuro's throat. It takes precisely no thought and minimal effort to hook a finger into the ring at its center, to use it as leverage to pull Himuro down, his arms trapping Aomine like a parenthesis.

"Better," says Aomine, less of a word and more of an exhale into Himuro's mouth. He swallows the groan he receives and gives one back as Himuro moves his hips, punctuating each thrust with a murmur of Aomine's name.

"Daiki," he says, softly focused. Aomine's answering noises are coarse, torn between moans and mindless filth, spurring Himuro to go faster, rougher. The bed frame objects and they ignore it.

Later comes, and after Aomine gets in a comment about Himuro's reactions to his voice — to which the poker face makes an untimely reappearance — Himuro retorts with, "I noticed, you know. Your little fixation."

Himuro hardly has to say anything else, Aomine's mind already laden with suspicion. Still, denial has its merits. "Whatever it is, it's probably your fault."

And there, Himuro's smile returns, sly as ever, mimicking the flash of silver against his skin. "Probably."


End file.
